Mythville

Beepee City Blues

Awake in a captured American city,
wide awake, uncommon and conquered
by Beepee, of thee I sing: see the greenish
star sign, flag of my new queen, no king ...

And so this is the new valley, forged
by a poisoned sea. You see? I stared
into your dark and bubbling gurgle
of gore, too long, and now I have lost
my heart, owning my death, drowned
and alive, in little bubbles of grease ...

And yours, in these hours, drifting back
into sleep now, uncovering the brown loam
of anguished grief, in the Paris of the prairie,
dreaming of the fairies, who bleep my name,
cursing my overdone disinfected dysfunction ...

At discourse with the junction of light and dark,
on my electronic ark, loading the animals now,
my music, your now now and mine, to thine
angels we seek truth, cruel, my belly, your barrel
of hell, spelled out now in the sweet spice
of good medicine, served in a box of Davey Jones,
containing my heart at the bottom of the gulf
between me and you ...

Bank of American Blues

The pedestrian road rager
sat down and listened to the deaf man,
can to string to broken cracked can man,
confessing he worked with Steven Spielberg's dad
in 1957, when they were drumming up plans
for a main frame computer program
to undo the earth, the heart, our American home,
from Huns to Hunstra, who came to a Southwestern
desert, house-built by the mob, dreamed up in Vegas,
to the compromised creosote landscape
of hornytoads and rattle snakes nabbed
in trash cans, tumbleweeds built up
along fences, a witch hunt for the wilds;
He who came to town for General Electric,
He who died on a Sunday afternoon
in a small plane crash in New Mexico,
flying back from the East, when Gee Hee,
very shortly thereafter, gave up on taikos
and the remaining Promethean games
games to come, working for golf putter
designers, golf coursey hunters of the bank
of American dreams as I now enter
the sleek confines, the cat box catcher
of red and white walls and fixed furniture,
with not much blue anywhere, not much else
but blue type spelling "Bank of America,"
lots of beeping noises, alerting the authorities
of the dangerous Danton armed to rob you,
with his big assed damn scary pen, strange
and haunted, shell-shocked eyes,
home loads of red, charged off years ago,
in overdraft fees that should be given back
to the people you croaked, the dead peasants
you croaked with check systems given out
like blankets to nineteenth century Apaches
to gather accounts made up of less than zeroes,
for third-party collection companies,
as the wind cries Mary ...

A Corporation
Recipe to Serve Man

Specialize
Create niches
Differentiate
Provide top quality, as perceived
by customer, to provide superior
service, in tangibles
to achieve extraordinary
responsiveness,
prescriptions for a world
made upside down
to launch an over-the-counter
revolution for diseased adults
so they can make for better
sales and service to blind victims,
who now listen, obsessively,
to your practiced swipes
of international card counters,
who have no concept in mind
of who the counter revolutionary
revolutionaries might lurk,
the encouraged poets of everything,
worked to death, worked to everything
but dreaming, worked to death until dropping
to support fastened failures of Chinese
plastic toys over the Christmas holidays,
O Christs of change, pocket follies,
for improved taxation purposes,
if for nothing else ...

Create corporate
capacity for more innovation
while reducing everyone elses
capacity to do anything
but train and re-train
for false employment guarantees
of securities of exchange
for status slaves ...
reduce ...
reduce ...
reduce ...
And then serve ...

~ Phoenix, Arizona